


Deleted Scenes

by spam_chan



Series: Second Chances [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cute Kids, F/M, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, No Smut, Single Parents, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28000548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spam_chan/pseuds/spam_chan
Summary: Everyday moments from Hermione and Scorpius's lives before and after the start ofWith Everything I Am.Maybe chronological, maybe not, but always annotated with Scorpius's age.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Series: Second Chances [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2049243
Comments: 19
Kudos: 82





	1. Scorpius Draws a Pretty Picture - Age 3

The kitchen table at Grimmauld place was overtaken by broken, sticky crayons. Albus, James, and Scorpius sat in a semicircle on their booster chairs, coloring quietly in what was every parent’s dream scenario. Afraid to disrupt whatever miracle was at play, their parents hovered just behind their chairs, watching the boys color. 

But while all three artworks were lovely, Scorpius’s had the room’s attention. 

It was a beautiful picture of his family smiling outside the Burrow. Fluffy white clouds. Rolling hills. Green grass. Blue sky. Smiling Weasleys. Smiling cousins. Smiling mummy and Scorpius. 

Absolutely beautiful. 

Save for one small—well, technically rather large—detail.

Ginny regained the ability to speak first. 

“Blimey, Harry, is that your head?

Harry Potter’s head was big. Very big. Eclipses-the-trees-and-impedes-avian-flight big. Taking up over half the parchment, it was larger than the sun.

“I—well I hope not. Scorpius, bud, what’s that?”

“Uncle Harry.”

It came out as a monotone chant, his focus fixed on his picture, still scribbling in the green of Harry’s monstrous eyes. 

“Wh-buddy, why is his head like that?”

His little brow scrunched up like a squirming caterpillar, and he pinched his tiny mouth in thought. Quirking his head just a bit to answer Ginny, he took great care to enunciate very clearly, making his position on any critiques of his beautiful artwork known. 

“Don’t know, just think he has a big head.”

Dinner burned horridly, as no one was in any state to check it. While Harry sat, catatonic, on the arm of the couch, Hermione and Ginny shook with the aftershocks of giggles. When they’d finally managed to put the boys to bed, all of them flustered by their parents' lack of composure, Hermione let out a deep sigh, sank into the cushion beside Harry, and said, “well I guess that’s just genetic.”


	2. Scorpius Wants to Know about Death Eaters - Age 5

“Mummy, what’s a Death Eater?”

Hermione had taken Scorpius to the park with George, who’d practically begged her for the opportunity to test some new products on her son. She’d agreed, with the heavy stipulations that nothing would be ingested, rubbed on his skin, or allowed near his eyes. He was also to wear a helmet the entire time. And she was to be present for any and all product trials, with full veto rights and blueprints in hand. 

So the conversation she’d been dreading since she found out about Scorpius’s existence was happening in a muggle park, while her too-young son wore a ladybug helmet and fisted several varieties of frog-expelling fireworks. Excellent. 

“Where did you hear that, love?”

“Playgroup. Victoor said my daddy was a Death Eater. What’s that mean?”

‘Victoor’ was her son’s adorable way of trying to pronounce ‘Victoire’, his older cousin’s name. The little misspeak cracked her heart just a bit more, and necessitated another second before she could press on. 

George gathered supplies behind them, listening while attempting to pack everything up in the way least likely to attract attention—which, to him, meant crouching rather low to the ground, shifting his limbs around slowly, and increasingly drawing attention to himself as the most suspicious person on the playground. A woman by the monkey bars eyed him with pinched features, cradling her child a touch closer.

But Scorpius either didn’t notice his uncle’s odd behavior or didn’t care about it. He walked up to the bench where his mother sat, placed his hands—fireworks and all—on her knees, looked her in the eye, and repeated himself as if talking to someone who ought to be paying him much more attention. 

“Mummy. What is a Death Eater?”

A little breeze blew her hair into his mouth, and his spluttering gave her just a second longer of living in the bubble of before.

“A Death Eater is someone who does not always do very nice things, and represents the belief that muggles aren’t as good as magical people.”

She’d practiced, of course. Death Eaters couldn’t be called bad people, because then _his daddy_ would be bad people, which might make Scorpius nervous that _he_ was bad people. And they couldn’t just not do very nice things, they had to not _always_ do nice things, otherwise his daddy only did not-very-nice things. And she definitely couldn’t say they believed that muggles were inferior, because then his daddy hated his mummy and his mummy’s parents and—

‘Practiced’ did not begin to cover it. Hermione had rehearsed this conversation in the shower every day since Scorpius’s social circle grew to include his playgroup—his cousins and all the neighborhood kids. That Victoire had brought it up was surprising, and she was already planning a strongly worded owl to Bill, but—

One thing at a time. 

Grasping for a deep breath, Hermione scooped Scorpius up into her lap and waited for him to absorb what she’d said.

“So… sometimes my daddy wasn’t very nice, especially to muggles, but not always?”

She tugged one of the spiral ladybug legs dangling from his little helmet.

“Yes, bug, that’s exactly right.”

“Not nice like when I do my pranks on Uncle Ron?”

George snorted, nominating himself for the position of ‘single most unhelpful person in Hermione Granger’s life.’ He visibly shrank when leveled with a glare, allowing her to address her son’s _adorable and not at all laughable_ concerns. 

“No, bug. Uncle Ron knows that you love him, even while you’re pranking him.”

 _Now. He knows that now._

“But the not nice things I’m talking about are a bit different. You know how I always tell you to use your words when you have disagreements?”

“Like when I tried to hit James with my apple and you said no.”

Another snort. Stupid George. 

“Yes, a bit like that, love. It isn’t nice to hurt people.”

“So my daddy didn’t use his words?”

A tricky bit of rhetoric, but she was ready for it. 

“Bug, it’s—“

“I’m not a bug, mummy, it’s a _helmet_!”

And now he was shrieking. 

“Of course, love, my mistake. It’s just such a wonderfully realistic helmet, I was confused! But remember, indoors or not, we have to speak politely.”

“Yes, mummy.”

“Do you remember what we were talking about?”

“Words?”

“Yes. Words. There’s something important I need to tell you about words, alright? I know I’ve always told you to use your words instead of hitting, but sometimes words can hurt even more than any hit. Do you remember seeing mummy’s arm?”

She rolled up her left sleeve, bunching up the fabric to show her son the wrinkled, jagged, _mudblood_ scar on her forearm.

“Your scar! What’s that got to do with words?”

“The scar on my arm is one of those words that hurts more than a hit. Can you sound it out?”

“M-mudblewd?”

“Mudblood.”

George was staring like she’d survived it all over again, like no one had ever felt pride before he’d laid eyes on her. 

“Mudblood.” His tiny little voice was saying that tiny little word. It was almost too much. But his father was a Death Eater and his mother was a mudblood, and he could not walk into the world blind to what that meant. 

“Yes, love. That’s it. But it’s a very cruel thing to say, a horrible word for someone with non-magical parents. And it’s been cut into me by—“

“—someone who does not always do very nice things,.”

“Yes. Yes, love. You’re a wonderful listener.”

“Did my daddy do that?”

“No. _No_. He never did anything like this. Your father was… stuck. He didn’t want to do bad things, but bad people made him.”

“How?”

“They were mean to his mummy.”

Scorpius’s proportionally giant eyes grew even wider as he whispered, “his mummy?”

Of course her son would understand how scary that might be. 

“Yes. They were mean to his mummy to make sure he listened. Sometimes people do bad things, but that doesn’t always mean they’re bad people. Like your my daddy. He tried to protect his mummy, and he made mistakes.”

“I… I think I understand. I don’t know what I would do if someone was mean to you, mummy. Probably throw a _bunch_ of apples or something.”

This time she joined George in his giggles, meeting his eyes over the top of Scorpius’s head, comforted that they were as wet as hers. 

“Please try to avoid apple throwing. It wastes food and it’s not very nice.”

Scorpius nodded, bracing himself to hop off her lap, before stilling and whipping his head around. 

“Can I write him and ask about it?”

“Write who, love?”

“My daddy?”

Somehow it never failed to constrict her heart in a way that nearly cut off blood supply, the way Scorpius casually mentioned his father. 

“Of course. But remember, he—“

“—won’t answer. I know. I just want to, what’s it you say, mummy?”

“Sort out your thoughts on your own.”

“Sort out my thoughts on my own. But you’ll help if I need to spell or something?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, great, gonna go see what frogs I get this time.”

“Do not put a single frog in your mouth or we go home immediately, do I make myself clear?”

“ _Yes mum_.” Neither that tone nor that face should have belonged to someone under the age of fifteen—especially someone whose attitude came from not being allowed to consume live frogs. 

George took Scorpius’s place, sitting beside her on the bench. They neither moved nor spoke for some time, watching Scorpius giggle as he lit his fireworks and shrieked as the frogs rained down on him. Eventually George’s hand made its way to her own, giving it a small squeeze as he spoke. 

“For what it’s worth, I think that was brilliant.”

It was something unique to the Weasleys—an entirely stunted emotional range, right up until it really mattered.

“Someone else is telling him about Bellatrix. I’m not ready for my son to know the word _bitch_.”

—


End file.
